have looked with scorn at anyone who talked to me like that two
years ago. You were proud of me because my work wasn't altogether
common, and because I had never written a line that was meant to
attract the vulgar. All that's over now. If you knew how dreadful
it is to see that you have lost your hopes of me!'

'Well, but I haven't--altogether,' Amy replied, meditatively. 'I
know very well that, if you had a lot of money, you would do
better things than ever.'

'Thank you a thousand times for saying that, my dearest.'

'But, you see, we haven't money, and there's little chance of our
getting any. That scrubby old uncle won't leave anything to us; I
feel too sure of it. I often feel disposed to go and beg him on
my knees to think of us in his will.' She laughed. 'I suppose
it's impossible, and would be useless; but I should be capable of
it if I knew it would bring money.'

Reardon said nothing.

'I didn't think so much of money when we were married,' Amy
continued. 'I had never seriously felt the want of it, you know.
I did think--there's no harm in confessing it--that you were sure
to be rich some day; but I should have married you all the same
if I had known that you would win only reputation.'

'You are sure of that?'

'Well, I think so. But I know the value of money better now. I